


the beginning and the end

by mickeysmiddlefinger



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, Multi, tw for drugs and addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeysmiddlefinger/pseuds/mickeysmiddlefinger
Summary: it’s the beginning and the end kavinsky lives for. the middle, however, is a big fucking blur he tries to fill with with the speed, the drugs, the sex, the violence, the fluorescent lights at nino’s. it’s the smoke before the savagely beautiful fire and the ashes from his last cigarette.ora study in kavinsky's emptiness.





	the beginning and the end

Kavinsky’s eyes, like all damaged people, glow with destruction.

Little pieces of him litter his car; an energy drink on the floor, a lighter left forgotten under the car seat, a pack of cigarettes falling out of his pocket, and the remnants of cocaine on the dashboard. He cleans it up with his finger and rubs it around his lips and gum. His arm falls out of the open car window as he pushes his sunglasses up on his head and watches Swan in the car next to him, Skov smiling from the passenger seat. The lights from his dashboard cast a purple glow on Swan’s dark skin. 

“You ready, asshole?” Kavinsky shouts. 

He lights a cigarette. The coke has numbed his entire mouth so bad it feels like the cigarette is going to fall out of his mouth. 

“Fuck off” Swan replies and rolls up the window. 

A smile flashes across Kavinsky’s face. He puts on his sunglasses and pushes down the gas pedal. Cocaine. Speed. Cigarettes. Prokopenko waiting at the end of the drag strip. Fuck, Kavinsky thinks. I can’t see shit. If he hits him, Proko’s body will splatter across his windshield in a beautiful mosaic. The thought is both repulsive and alluring.

When he hits the breaks and swerves around Swan’s car, the cocaine has hit him to the skies. There is magic running through his veins so fast he can barely keep up. 

When he steps out of the car, Proko gives him a large grin, exposing a row of crooked teeth. 

“You are so fucking high, K.” 

Kavinsky smiles. Prokopenko looks so fucking fragile, an oversized hoodie embracing his skinny body, hood up in a way that makes his elongated face look like he hasn’t eaten in two days. Maybe he hasn’t. Kavinsky can’t remember last time he ate, it’s like the days come together, every night a new ferocious animal in the form of a powder, a pill, or tire marks. 

Kavinsky slaps Proko's face softly and grabs his chin, forcing him to look at him. 

“Who won?” 

Proko swats his hand away. “Swan.” 

“Told you so” Skov says from behind him, the blue in his hair washed out in the soft moonlight. 

“Shut the fuck up” Kavinsky says and reaches for a small plastic bag in his pack pocket. 

He grabs his key to catch a few lines inside the bag, puts it up to his nose, and snorts it. 

“Fuck me” he howls. “My heart is beating so fucking fast.” 

“I’m fucking starving” Proko says, arms crossed in front of him. “Let’s go get something to eat.” 

The cocaine is running through Kavinsky like a wounded wolf; violent, damaged, vicious. He wants to break everything he’s ever created, and Prokopenko is on top of that list, merely a ghost of a boy standing in front of him. He can’t stop thinking about what a beautiful explosion he would make. 

He hands the coke to Proko. 

“Dinner.” 

Proko scoffs and shakes his head. “Come on, K.” 

“Come on, K.” Kavinsky mimics his voice impeccably. “What? My shit isn’t good enough for you?” 

“You’re fucking high” Swan says. “Give it a rest.” 

It starts with the emptiness. Kavinsky can feel it coming. He can see the scene unfolding in front of him; Swan and Skov getting ready to go back home, get some sleep, come on, Kavinsky, we’ve been out for three days in a row, let’s get some sleep, even Jiang isn’t here, Proko restlessly coming down from the cocaine, the hunger kicking in.

It’s like Kavinsky is burning while the rest of the world sees nothing but the wisp of smoke. 

He turns around and swings his car door open, grabs a gun from under the seat, and points it at Prokopenko. Swan raises an eyebrow. Proko runs his hand through his bleached blonde hair and sighs. 

“What will it take for you to get going, huh?” Kavinsky says and walks forward until the barrel of the gun touches Proko’s forehead. 

Silence fills the drag strip, nothing but the Henrietta highway echoing in the distance. 

“A gun pressed to your head?” he says softly, his eyes glistening like a burning church. Proko looks at him, something between fear and ecstasy flashing across his face as the gun gives away a soft click. 

“For fuck’s sake, Kavinsky” Swan says and takes a step forward. 

Kavinsky presses the gun harder between Proko’s eyes. “’For fuck’s sake’ me one more time and his blood will be on your hands, not mine, sweetheart.”  


Skov can’t help but laugh. “You’re a fucking psychopath.”

Don’t leave me. The plead echoes through Kavinsky’s head. Don’t leave. Prokopenko puts a hand softly on Kavinsky’s, his eyes fixated on him, as if he’s approaching a fighting dog, cautiously, no sudden movements. He lowers Kavinsky’s hand. 

“Feel it” Kavinsky says. 

“Feel what?” 

“Freedom, baby. My second favorite F-word.” 

It forces a slanted smile onto Prokopenko’s lips. Kavinsky hands the bag of cocaine to him and turns around to put the gun back in the car. Swan and Skov are passing a joint between each other, eyelids heavy. Prokopenko does a line from his key and looks up at the starry sky, eyes wide open. 

“Where's Lynch?” Swan asks. 

“Probably off sucking Gansey’s million dollar dick” Kavinsky says. 

He looks around, the fire within him still burning, his heart beating so fast he can feel it through his ribcage, like a bird in captivity.

He thinks of Ronan. Of the dreams. Of Prokopenko’s coked up eyes. Of Swan. Skov. Jiang. His wolf pack, yet he feels like a lone wolf.

That night in the car, when he and Ronan jumped in and out of dreams, the smell of gasoline heavy in the air, was the only time he has felt a part of something. Prokopenko is the closest he’ll ever come, an extension of him, a promise that he'll never be alone. 

“What are you looking at?” Proko asks. 

Kavinsky cups Proko’s chin between his thumb and his finger. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever created. Let’s go get some fucking food.” 

It’s the beginning and the end Kavinsky lives for. The middle, however, is a big fucking blur he tries to fill with with the speed, the drugs, the sex, the violence, the fluorescent lights at Nino’s. It’s the smoke before the savagely beautiful fire and the ashes from his last cigarette.

And he knows no other way to fill the emptiness.

No other way to live.


End file.
